Poems (Kimball)/His Rest

by Harriet McEwen Kimball

HIS REST.

FAIR is the world wherein we dwell,
    And day and night
Crown miracle with miracle
    Of new delight;
    Almost it seems
    A world of dreams.

But, oh! the World of worlds that lies
    This world outside,
Whose splendors to these human eyes
    Are yet denied,
    And seer and saint
    Have failed to paint!

"Eye hath not seen," our tongues repeat,
    In rapt belief,
When earth blooms fairest round our feet,
    And sin and grief
    Withhold their power
    Some little hour.

But when the heart grows sick with pain,
    The burden sore,
And all our labor seems in vain,
    And o'er and o'er
    The sin we fight
    Returns with might;

When loss and sickness touch us close,
    And death draws near
To take not us, perhaps, but those
    Than self more dear;
    When some swift blow
    Doth lay us low;

Or long discouragement or strife
    Doth wear away
The ardor and the joy of life,
    Do what we may;
    And many woes
    Our doubts disclose—

Far more than glories unconceived
    Beyond the grave,
His rest in whom we have believed
    Is what we crave:
    By night and day
    For rest we pray.

O blessed world! we cry, uncrossed
    By grief or sin,
How will these souls now tempted, tossed,
    Rejoice to win
    Those shores that shine
    With Peace divine!

Jesus, most tried, most tempted One,
    Dear sinless Lord,
What toil was Thine beneath the sun!
    By scourge and cord,
    And bitter food,
    And cruel rood,

That Heavenly Rest for us was bought;
    And, oh! that we
Might count our light affliction nought
    In following Thee,
    And here below
    Its sweetness know!

That sweetness, dearest Lord, at least
    One hour may bring,
When to Thy Presence in the Feast
    Divine we cling,
    And wondrously
    Commune with Thee!

O precious foretaste, Heaven brought near,
    Within our reach,
When, though no glory doth appear
    Surpassing speech,
    The soul oppressed
    Finds here Thy Rest!